The year was 1966. And I was 13 years old, visiting England for the first-time with my British-born mother.
Did I want to meet the British side of my family? Of course I did. But was I dying to see the changing of the guard, the Tower of London, the Crown Jewels, Buckingham Palace and all the sights of London?. No, I most certainly was not.
All I wanted to do was find – and meet –my idol, Beatle John Lennon. And that’s exactly what I did.
Having obtained an address from a US Beatle fanzine, (yes, you could do that back then) I showed it to my British Uncle Vic, who surmised that the address (albeit a bit bungled) was in St. George’s Hill Estate in Weybridge, an upscale residential area 19 miles outside London. Uncle Vic and my mother agreed to drive me around the woodsy neighborhood filled with ivy-covered Tudor-style mansions until we found what I was convinced was the right address. The signs left by fans that read, “I Love You, John!” at the gate were a pretty safe clue. Satisfied, the adults dropped me off to stand in the driveway and wait for in hopes of meeting John while they went off to play 18 holes of golf at the nearby country club.
I stood all alone in the driveway all morning – armed with my camera, a pen and a photo for him to sign — wearing a black Beatle cap, a Beatles sweatshirt and short skirt. At one point, it started to rain but I was not deterred. I waved to the postman and the milkman when they opened the gate and made their deliveries to the sprawling house up the snaking driveway.
I even saw John’s Aunt Mimi, his wife Cynthia, with their son, Julian, drive out. Shortly afterwards, a long black limo with tinted windows rolled slowly down the drive. I expected it to keep going but instead the limo stopped and the rear window rolled down. Sitting inside, wearing black sunglasses, was… John Lennon.
John looked at me and asked, “What do you want, Luv?” It was then that I realized i had not prepared anything to say. I was speechless! I managed to stammer, “May I have your autograph?” and handed him the photo and a pen. Then I pointed my camera at him while he signed. Seconds later, John passed the photo and pen back to me and said, “Well, gotta go, Luv. Tarrah.” The tinted window rolled back up and the rolls slowly drove away. I thought to myself, ‘Nothing will top this experience. Nothing. I can die happy,’ I decided, so typical of a 13-year-old.
But even now, some 40 very odd years later, I can safely say that really was the highlight of my entire life. And thank God the photo actually turned out.